


Calm

by Ylevihs



Series: How Not to Fall [13]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Retribution Spoilers, brief Dr. Finch, canon typical angst, mentions of flystep, platonic chargestep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 14:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18802402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylevihs/pseuds/Ylevihs
Summary: Richard offers an invitation to Ortega.





	Calm

They both knew that Richard no longer really needed an escort to his sessions with Dr. Finch, but the walk had become something of a routine for the two of them. Habitual. Meet on the corner of Walgrove and Rose Avenues, walk three blocks south, one block west. Ortega would go off to do whatever it was he did while Richard spent an hour trying to stay in the life raft he and Dr. Finch were building out of bullshit and liquid cement white lies. And then Richard, having either sunk or swum, would emerge to Ortega messing with his phone or finishing up a conversation. They would walk. Mostly talk. Sometimes argue. And by the time they’d walked back up to Rose it was time to decide if they’d grab a beer or keep walking or go their separate ways.

Walking was on the menu that afternoon, which suited Richard just fine.

During the session he and Dr. Finch had discussed the nature of friendship, as though the good shrink had been able to peep right in and see what half formed fears were sulking around the corners of his mind. He’d been vague; Dr. Finch was more than used to that and hadn’t pressed when he started with:

“I want to work on trust. On trusting my friends more,” and the unspoken ‘who’ and ‘with what’ remained just that. Unspoken. And Dr. Finch had asked if he had anyone he felt like he could trust in his life now. In their earliest sessions Richard had admitted how difficult it was for him to open up. “Besides you?” like all of his jokes, that one wasn’t funny. She gave him a patient smile anyway and in her notes she made comments about using humor and wanting to follow up more on that later. She said:

“Besides me,”

He trusted Daniel. The stark and unadulterated knowledge made him feel almost giddy. He’d taken the risk, put his life, freedom, future, in Daniel’s hands. It hadn’t come back to bite him. Yet. It might. There was always the might. But it was three months since his last real confession—he didn’t really count the hushed and fragile admissions made in the hours before dawn—and he was still alive. Still walking as free as someone like him could. And the reward for exposing the dendrites beneath his skin to the bright sun had been, after the initial shock, warmth. The bastard second cousin of safety. A space where the old, insidious fears had given way for newer, more gentle terrors. 

“I’ve been,” Richard cleared his throat. “The guy I’ve been seeing. I trust him,” more note taking. Clenched between his knees, his fingers itched to wriggle and tap. He squeezed them hard for a second. Two. The feeling passed and with it went the shiver of having voiced a secret. He caught the faint hint of ‘internalized?’ and almost felt relieved. Out of all the things he could actually talk openly about, if Dr. Finch decided to look down that street Richard could give her a tour of every house on the block. It was practically the only thing he hadn’t internalized over the years. “And of course I trust Ortega,”

Which was the right thing to say, even if it left a sour taste on his tongue. He trusted Ortega the same way he trusted Dr. Finch. Trusted this person to do their best and take pride in a job well done. He was Dr. Finch’s patient. He was Ortega’s guilt driven pet-project, even if the ranger would never admit as much. Admit that so much of his behavior came from the hope that if he helped piece his old friend back together again, he could salvage some of what he lost during Heartbreak. He trusted both Ortega and Finch with the same half lies and vague misdirections.

That needed to change. Finch was his therapist but telling someone like her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, was out of the question. Ricardo was supposedly his best friend. Daniel had been right in that Ortega needed to. To know more at least. Something more. 

_Of course I trust Ortega._ The real question was with how much.

Could he trust Ortega with his life? He trusted him to have his back in a fight. He trusted that Ortega cared about him. Trusted that Ortega felt guilt and pity and grief. Trusted that Ortega thought of him as his friend. Did he trust Ortega not to hate him? Did he trust Ortega not to sentence him to a long fall and a sudden stop?

Ten years was a long time to be lied to.

And that didn’t even factor in the magnitude of the lies.

“Trusting someone can be a very scary thing to do,” Dr. Finch was talking in the distance. “But to trust someone with more than what you’ve already given them can be even scarier. You should consider taking some time to think about what the people you’d like to trust more have trusted you with and work from there,”

Trust them with the things they’ve trusted you with, she’d advised. And then turned the conversation towards the notes and questions she’d made, carefully trying to patch the holes in his life raft.

–

Behind the gathering clouds, the sky was robin egg blue. Bright and promising a day of decent, perhaps actually pleasant, weather.

Richard and Ortega walked slightly out of step with one another. They kept pace despite it, long legs matching a naturally quick speed.

“News said storms for the rest of the week,” Richard followed Ortega’s gaze upwards. At the moment the clouds were white and wispy, letting the sun filter through in golden threads.

“At least that should keep the temperatures down,” so quiet small talk it was then. Something was clearly on Ortega’s mind.

“Which I imagine will be nice, considering all the time you’ve been spending outdoors lately,” there was a grin in the sentence, Richard could feel it. Of course that would be the thing he was thinking about. With all of his oozy innocence and conversation about the weather and polite little small talk. He didn’t take the bait and Ortega folded surprisingly quickly. “Was volunteer work Dr. Finch’s idea?” and there was no grin on his face when Richard stopped to look at his face. Whatever the expression was meant to be at least it looked kind. Cautious. Not wanting to pry into places he said he’d leave alone. Had Daniel said something? No, Daniel would have told him that he’d told Ortega. Did Ortega know someb—stop that line of thought. There were times when it felt like Ortega knew everybody. 

“No,” Richard shrugged away the uneasy paranoia and made no move to keep walking. The two of them instead shuffled off from the center of the sidewalk, standing in the mouth of a broad alleyway. “No, that was Daniel’s idea,” he amended, unable to look up at Ortega’s grinning face and opting to watch his shoes. “But she, uh. We did talk about something today that had to do with you,”

Even without looking Richard knew that expression that Ortega was making. The quick fire blinking and lips almost pursing. Then smoothing out into something teasing. Eyebrows lifted, smile thin and smug.

“Oh really?” Richard glanced up in time to watch the face shift into hesitant seriousness. “Should I be worried?” he gave Ortega a shrug.

“Always,” and the smile Ortega offered back was a pleasant one. The sigh that escaped Richard’s chest was not and went on for too long. He could still stop this. He didn’t have to say anything. He could tell Ortega a half truth. A delicate little white lie, the same as the ones he told Dr. Finch.

“Well then, give me something to worry about,”

It was cowardice.

It was fear.

It was well founded fear. He’d known for years that telling Ortega who and what he was would kill him. At least, it would kill the only part of him Sidestep used to think was worth keeping alive. Now that the drive to survive was in a constant state of flux for him, the threat of a death like this wasn’t so terrible. A huge part of him would die, but maybe there was enough of him now that he could live through the amputation. The idea that Ortega wouldn’t walk away didn’t cross his mind. It was simply a matter of how much would Ortega hate him and what would he do with it.

“I’ve been a pretty awful friend to you, Ricardo,” his hand was up to stop Ortega from interrupting before the other man’s mouth was even open. Ortega relaxed back, crossing his arms over his chest, eyebrows dipping in concern. But he agreeably stayed quiet. Let Richard try to gather himself. “I have been and we both know it. I’ve kept too many secrets. And you’ve been better to me than I could ever deserve,” far better. But it was only because he didn’t know the truth. The knowledge sat massive and hideous on the tip of Richard’s tongue. “I wanted to ask if you’d give me the chance to be a better friend to you. Not. Not a clean start, obviously. But…maybe make up for lost time?”

Silence, awful in its length.

Ortega’s face stayed somewhere between blank and confused. Blinking. Processing. What Richard wouldn’t give to be able to see which gears were turning. He liked to think he’d gotten fairly skilled at reading Ortega’s expressions. Clearly he’d been wrong. And then it seemed to occur to the man that Richard was waiting for an answer and his face softened.

“I…of course? You don’t even have to ask, _of course._ You’re my best friend, you,” And Richard could feel it in his spine how Ortega meant to finish the sentence and was overcome by the need to cut it off. It wasn’t a tight embrace, but it was enough to startle Ortega into shutting up before he said something that might break Richard’s heart. His friend. Something felt like it was tearing inside of him. His best friend, the echoed thought was from Richard’s own treacherous mind. Richard’s first and best friend. The first person who had ever noticed him—really noticed him. Treated him like he mattered. Like they cared. Brought him into their home. Their space. Went out of their way to make him feel like he belonged in a world where there would never be a place for him.

Who didn’t know the truth that he _could_ never belong.

Something hideous inside of him said that Ortega would have been that friendly to anyone. Everyone. Ortega was a force of nature when it came to insinuating himself into people’s lives. But he called Richard his best friend. Surely that had to count for something.

Ah, beans, he wished he’d had the courage to say something all those years ago. Rolled up a sleeve after a fight and shown him and dealt with it then and there. He’d been so paralyzed by the fear of the consequences. That same malicious dread still had its fingers buried in his lungs, making it hard to breathe. But it was too late for regrets now. Only onwards and ahead. You’ve dug your grave. Now lie in it.

The body in Richard’s arms tensed for a fraction of a second before the hug was returned, Ortega wrapping his arms around him tightly. It felt good, which Richard hated immediately. Safe and secure, which he knew he didn’t deserve. Unwanted and unwelcome, the thought of the first time Ortega had ever gave him a hug barreled into Richard’s mind, breaking dishes and overturning furniture. It had been quick and casual, the Marshal having no way of knowing about how much that single embrace had rocked Richard’s foundations. Sidestep refusing to come back with the Marshal to the Ranger’s headquarters to get a shower and food. The roll of the those brown eyes and the rueful smile and the ‘see you around then,’ and quick squeeze across his shoulders. Companionable and open and. And. Like he was a real human being. Just another person.

The little flicker of hope that maybe he really could be somebody.

Silence.

Breathing.

Warm and solid, familiar, the low level thrumming from Ortega’s palms tickled through his sweater.

_This is the last time you’ll ever get to hold him like this._ A terrible thought. A true one. One that made Richard reflexively tighten just a little. Feel the current of him a little bit more. Ortega answered it in kind with a quiet:

“Hey, it’s okay. Really,”

_Don’t cry. If you start crying this will only drag on longer than it needs to. Keep it together._

There would be plenty of time for hysterics later. 

It wasn’t Richard who pulled away first. Or Ortega. Both men seemed to relax away from each other at the same pace. Still silent. Richard’s hands lingered a little on Ortega’s shoulders, unable to pull away entirely. Ortega’s face was unreadable. He could have almost been sad. Confused. Or.

“Are you free Saturday night?” Richard forced out.

“What?” but it came with a surprised laugh, cutting through whatever it was that had been gathering between them. That was such a good sound. “Yeah, I can be free on Saturday,” Ortega adjusted the sleeves on his suit jacket, still looking out of sorts either by Richard’s admission or by the abrupt hug.

“Have dinner at my place. With me and Daniel,” not exactly a question but still a request. Richard felt his stomach roll with nausea. Still enough time to back out. They could just have dinner. Just dinner and nothing else. The teasing smile was creeping back now and Richard let it make him roll his eyes. Ortega’s body language was settling back into something more familiar. Easier.

“Are you cooking?” notes of doubt and over-dramatic horror.

“You know I won’t be,”

Ortega’s tone shifted, a little excited, a little antagonistic. “Shit, do you remember when I tried to teach you how to make eggs benedict?” his grin grew a few molars wider. “Oh, poor Herald,”

“Nope,” Richard lied easily, swiveling his head away from Ortega and walking stiff legged away from that memory. It earned him a laugh from Ortega, loud and genuine enough for the treacherous smile to make its way over Richard’s face. It felt like the skin on his face was stretched too thin. Richard heard the steady footsteps and then a hand clapped onto his shoulder. Rotated so that Ortega could slip into step beside him. Arm across his back in a slightly odd angle from their height difference. Not odd enough to stop him.

“So you don’t remember almost burning down my kitchen when you went to make the hollandaise sauce?” the walk cycle was ingrained in them. Proceeding down in a pace that said today was a day for walking together, as long and as far as either of them cared to go. Routine. Habitual.

It hit him like the worst punch he’d ever taken from Argent. He was going to lose this, too.

Obviously.

Whatever this was could never happen again. Whatever he and Ortega shared could never be again. It was going to die alongside him and he was going to be the one who killed it.

_Enjoy it while it lasts._

Richard’s heart ached with something besides nostalgia. “Nah. I think your dementia is showing old man,” he felt like he was shaking. Was he shaking? No. No, his hands looked steady. He felt steady. He’d felt steady when he’d stood on Daniel’s rooftop and nearly jumped. The placid calm that came sometimes when he’d reached the other side of a particularly nasty train of thought.

Ortega sputtered beside him, oblivious. “So then why aren’t you cooking on Saturday? Hm? You’re gonna force your young pretty boyfriend do it for you?”

Richard fumbled but for a different reason. He did his best to channel mock-offense. “Alright, I didn’t burn your kitchen down when I was making the sauce, I caught the napkins on fire when I tried to keep the egg yolks from breaking. And I don’t appreciate that slander very much, thank you,”

Another laugh, the hand on his shoulder tightened a little. “Sí, claro, it was because you’re clumsy and not because you’re awful at cooking?”

“It was because of _both_ , I just want credit where credit is due,” Ortega’s hand was still on his shoulder. A reassuring weight. His stomach rolled with the terror he was desperately trying to keep at bay. He bit his lower lip against the sensation and tried not to bite hard enough to break the skin. “So. Does seven on Saturday work for you?” the hand on his shoulder slipped down to his bicep and then fell down to his own palm. Ortega gave it a quick squeeze before sliding it away.

“I’ll be there,” he gave Richard a little nod. “I’ll bring a bottle of wine or, oh, maybe champagne? To toast the happy couple,” and, ah, beans, he was wiggling his eyebrows and then he _winked_ and. The grin completely took over Ortega’s face as Richard felt his own cheeks starting to burn.

“Never mind, you’re uninvited,” and Ortega snickered beside him while overhead the clouds began to roll in the wind.


End file.
